Table of Contents
___________________
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
E-Book Extra, excerpt from The Lost Treasures of R&B
Nelson George
Copyright & Credits
About Akashic Books
To Coffin Ed, Grave Digger, and Easy
Chapter One
Night didn’t notice the first Kawasaki Ninja in his rearview mirror as his black Explorer cruised Brooklyn’s Belt Parkway toward Manhattan. He was too busy savoring a fantasy of his own making. Only a few years ago Night had been a professional boy toy for lonely widows and aging ladies, his body a commodity enjoyed in the privacy of pricey condos and high-end hotels.
That was another life. Sitting behind the wheel of his ride, Night listened to a CD made off the sound board of last night’s concert in Atlanta. Screams of black women filled his ears, along with the sound of his voice, crooning smoothly through the R. Kelly produced and penned ballad “When Darkness Falls.”
As he luxuriated in his voice Night glanced over at Tandi Lincoln, sleeping sweetly in the passenger seat. She was a striking cinnamon lass with curly bronze hair and the well-maintained skin of a pampered black American princess. Years ago she’d dumped Night when she’d been advised of his old profession by a playa hater. Losing Tandi had always tugged at his heart, so when celebrity arrived (via his record deal) Night worked diligently to woo her back. There were plenty of women available for a dark chocolate R&B love man, but Night’s gigolo days made him jaded about women, sex, and all the accompanying bull. Tandi had vibed him when he had nothing and no one, and he needed the assurance of that kind of love. For the gig at the Fox Theater, Night had flown her down to Atlanta, a city that was home base to one of the nation’s finest collections of African American women, a gesture to demonstrate to her (and himself too!) how important she was to him. After the gig they’d gone back to the Four Seasons and, with the conviction of a woman who knew she was adored, Tandi had loved the singer so intensely they’d almost missed their flight home the next afternoon.
He glanced out of the driver’s-side window toward Coney Island, where the Wonder Wheel floated cars through the Brooklyn sky as it had for decades. As a child Night had taken the D train out to Coney Island to lie on its eroding, crowded beach and indulge in bad fried food. It was another blast from his past, years of poverty and hunger and anxiety. He thought of his mother’s death and his father’s belligerence and the uncertainty of his youth. When you were poor and black, he mused, you never knew what the fuck could happen next. You never felt in control of anything—least of all your life. He squeezed the wheel of his big, sturdy ride, happy that was all finally behind him.
Night only really paid attention to the first Kawasaki Ninja after he passed Coney Island. The bike and the driver’s helmet were white and lime green. On his body was a lime-colored, leather Rocawear tracksuit. The biker weaved his way through the light late-night traffic until he was abreast of Night’s car. Night thought the driver just wanted to drag race, which would have intrigued him if Tandi wasn’t in the ride. As this thought amused Night, little groups of Japanese-style motorcycles began appearing in his rearview mirror. First he spied three. Then there were five. Then four more. By the time Night’s Explorer cornered the tip of Brooklyn and was in the shadow of the Verrazano Bridge, there were fifteen bikes either beside or behind Night.
Obviously this was one of those ghetto bike clubs that had popped up since DMX featured the Rough Ryders club in one of his videos. All summer long these posses roared through the city, intimidating drivers fearful of the futuristic funk these motorized gangs represented.
Night wasn’t afraid—not really. But he was becoming real concerned. If any of these untrained, risk-taking fools somehow jammed into his car, Night, the one with the money and visibility, would take the weight. Any accident or, God forbid, a smash-up would automatically be his fault. Next to him a bike popped a wheelie. One kid stood up on his bike and did a handstand while rolling at sixty miles per hour down the Belt Parkway. Night attempted to maneuver his way out of the pack but found that instead of giving him space, the pack grew tighter around him. The green-suited biker accelerated a bit and moved right in front of his ride and dangerously close to his front bumper. Night pressed the center of his steering wheel and beeped loudly. The lead biker beeped back, closely followed by the horns of the other fourteen bikers in a frightening, sardonic chorus.
The blaring horns woke Tandi and, looking out of the window, she immediately saw that Night’s SUV was stuck in a cornfield of Japanese motorcycles. “What’s going on, Night?” she asked.
“Just some hip hop bike motherfuckers,” he replied dismissively. “They just making some noise. They got nothing better to do.”
The lime-green biker slowed down, forcing Night to reluctantly decelerate. Two of the bikers on the driver’s side began moving dangerously close to him, while the ones on the passenger side slid over to the right, creating a narrow passageway. They wanted Night to move to his right, which was precisely why he didn’t do it.
“You think they’re fans, Night?” Tandi asked innocently.
“That’s probably it,” he told his Tandi, trying to downplay his own anxiety. Night knew they weren’t. The women who bought his records drove Saabs, not Kawasaki Ninjas. Besides, he doubted they could see through his tinted windows in highway light. But this was an expensive ride, so he might have just been the wrong SUV on the wrong highway on the wrong night. He’d let his driver go home at JFK, happy to be driving himself again after three months of riding in tour buses, limos, and jeeps around the country. Now he was contemplating pushing the pedal to the floor and blasting his way through the bikes before things got serious. But he’d thought too long.
There was a loud tap on the driver’s-side window. Night turned and found the long barrel of a Desert Eagle automatic aimed at his face.
“Oh my God!” Tandi cried as Night struggled to keep his emotions under control. The biker with the gun motioned with it for Night to roll down his window. Night, frightened into obedience, followed the instructions.
“Next exit!” The voice was low-pitched but female—definitely female.
“Night,” Tandi screamed, “don’t do as they say! Keep driving straight!”
“No, boo, it’ll be all right. It’s just a carjacking. They’ll take the ride and we’ll be okay. Just keep it together and we’ll be all right.” Night’s voice was as calm as he could make it, but his heart was beating double time. Led by the lime-green biker, Night guided his car toward an exit for Red Hook, a section of Brooklyn with waterfront warehouses that was, at night, dreary and relatively isolated.
For the first time in several miles Night noticed that the CD of his performance was still playing. He heard himself seducing several thousand willing women. It was the voice of a man in complete control of his environment. It was a beautiful illusion that he suddenly had to let go of. He clicked off the CD player
, took a deep breath, and followed the lime-green biker down the exit ramp.
Chapter Two
D Hunter, dressed in black from boots to turtleneck, sat behind his battered mahogany desk as his small brown eyes focused on the woman in front of him. He always liked giving this little talk and worked hard not to let it sound too rote.
“The rules of D Security are very simple,” he explained to Mercedez Cruz. “We don’t disrespect the clients or the customers. We don’t curse and we don’t instigate. We take for granted that people want to feel safe even when they forget how to act.” Mercedez shook her pecan-colored head to acknowledge she was listening. “We’re more Dr. King than Malcolm X.” He paused for her to chuckle, but she didn’t. Mercedez just looked with black piercing eyes at the broad brown man sitting across the desk from her. Clearly, Mercedez didn’t waste smiles, which D always felt was a good trait in the crowd-control business. One introductory don’t-even-think-about-it stare could prevent a whole lot of mayhem later. D continued: “If someone becomes abusive or threatening we get backup and move in a wave. First we make a show of force. If that isn’t effective, we move together and subdue with a minimum of punching, swinging, and stomping.”
She’d been recommended to D by Mike Daddy, her sometime lover and the full-time barber to the black elite (P. Diddy, Chris Rock, Derek Jeter). When Mercedez walked in (at 10:45 for an 11 a.m. appointment), D’s first impression was that she was too slight for the job. Then she took off her red 3rd Down jacket and D saw her taut shoulders and arms, and fingers that were unusually thick for a woman’s.
“For the most part,” D observed, “the people we encounter are out for a good time. We don’t wanna get in the way of that good time unless they constitute a physical threat to others or are verbally abusive. If they are just acting stupid and no one minds, that’s fine.”
Mercedez’s résumé revealed a degree in criminal justice from John Jay and gigs at health clubs as a trainer. She was a sexy little hard rock who’d grown up in Brooklyn’s Pink Houses, a place where you develop a third eye for trouble. When not tending to her six-year-old son Damian, she worked as a bodyguard/trainer for several female R&B/hip hop divas, which could be lucrative but erratic, because when the singers weren’t about to tour, they often replaced sit-ups with Krispy Kremes. Mercedez was now seeking a job with steady hours and better cash flow.
“Now,” D continued, “we’d be bringing you on to specifically help us police female customers. As you know, women can be tricky. If a lady wants to ho out with a man in a men’s room stall we let her, but we don’t let men in the ladies’ room. That’s not acceptable. If she throws a drink on her boyfriend, fine. Women do that and then make up with the fool ten minutes later.”
“I know about that,” Mercedez said with her first smile.
“But a man throwing drinks at women? He’s got to go.”
Mercedez mentioned the name of a prominent female pop star she had once trained who was now notorious for getting drunk and passing out on VIP room sofas.
“If stuff like that happens,” D said, “first we talk to whoever is with her and try to get her out of the club that way.”
“What if the bitch is alone?” Mercedez was not feeling this lady.
“Number one, Mercedez,” D said evenly, “she’s never alone at a club. Number two, she is sometimes a client herself, so she’s never a bitch to D Security.”
“I hear you, D. Everybody can’t be as wholesome as that Bridgette Haze, I guess.”
“That’s right, baby. Naughty but nice like Haze is a good way to go. Look at poor Janet.”
“Well, baby,” she replied with her second smile, “I’ll definitely try to do that. Baby.”
Now D chuckled and asked, “Can you start tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Fill out those forms and I’ll give you the guided tour.”
The black man in black and the wavy-haired Puerto Rican woman moved out of the small, dark office through the even smaller reception area where a hard, black leather sofa sat under a Miles Davis Kind of Blue poster, and into a conference room. There was a long conference table, six chairs, two landlines, and innumerable paper plates and plastic forks. A big chart was mounted on one wall, listing employees and clients in neat black columns. The room stank of herb, bootleg designer cologne, and bronchitis spray—the last item crucial, since respiratory diseases were endemic to nightclub security. The other three walls were covered with a haphazard collage of concert posters, flyers, promo stickers, and food menus taped, glued, stapled, and pounded into the plaster and atop one another. There was a framed photo of D and some of his bouncers outside the Supper Club the night D Security had handled its first party. Next to that was a large autographed poster of Night in a stylish overcoat and applejack cap.
D was writing Mercedez’s name on the duty roster when she gave Night’s poster an affectionate glance and asked, “Do I get to protect him sometime?”
“You never know,” D replied with a smile, once again impressed by his old friend’s ability to attract women. “You know that club on Broome where they hold the Tea Party?”
“Oh yeah, that spot’s hot.”
“Report there around 8:30 and ask for this man.” D pointed out a bald, big-shouldered white man in the Supper Club picture. “That’s Jeff Fuchs. He runs that location and needs someone just like you.”
“Shit,” she said matter-of-factly. “Everybody needs somebody like me, D. But it’s what they want in return that’s the problem.”
“I hear that.”
She gestured toward the picture and then at D. “You gotta wear black to work here?”
“It’s not a rule,” he replied, “but it can’t hurt.”
Mercedez gave D a firm handshake, pulled on her red jacket, and left his office with a noticeable swagger.
* * *
Back at his desk, D clicked on his ebony Apple G3 and went over the night’s work roster.
D Security had the usual complement of ten at B.B. King’s tonight for a blues concert, which meant they’d encounter one or two overlubricated barleyheads, but otherwise it was a rocking-chair gig. Jeff’s team was, as usual, working Emily’s Tea Party, which meant D would have to go down for a minute and act important. The key meeting of the day was to be at Bad Boy, where D was to see about providing security at an album-release party for one of P. Diddy’s baby acts. That could be a big payday, though sometimes it took awhile for payment to flow down from Big Baller Land. Before D headed uptown for the sitdown, he’d call to confirm, since at Bad Boy time was elastic.
Now that Mercedez was gone, D checked various pieces of technology for messages. On the office answering machine: a grown woman’s voice. Gruff. Ethnic New York. Officious. Just doing her job. “This is Teresa from A.S.S. There will be an envelope left for you with the receptionist per Mr. Calabrese’s instructions. Good day.” If Mr. Dante Calabrese truly had his way, I’d be ass out, D mused, so fuck him, and thank you one more time, Mr. Bovine Winslow.
On the cell: static. Cell phone? Plane phone? Her voice. Light, preoccupied. Sexy. Comfortable with itself. Too comfortable with me. “Mr. D, it’s Miss Ann. Are you ever gonna wear that red Versace blazer I got you? I know it’s a little bright for your narrow taste, but you need some color in your life. So are you gonna wear it?”
Next message: white voice, black inflection. “Where you at, son? Need an extra man for tonight at Emily’s Tea Party. Actually, an extra girl would be good. That crazy sista from the Bronx isn’t just frisking—she’s copping feels. Bitch gets more play than me, which is fucking with me since she’s goddamn ugly. Get at me, dog.” Jeff Fuchs in full wigger effect. With Mercedez in the house that request was handled.
Next cell message: Sour. Brittle. Anxious. Proper. British and black. And D’s for as long as he cherished it. “My lovely, where are you? I need you at the club. E-A-R-L-Y. Okay? M-O-N-E-Y is owed. I know you know, my lovely, but I need to suss out my finances. The Crun
ch check is late. I design all these sexy workout things for them and still they treat me like a bald-headed stepchild. But then sometimes so do you. You know how I get. Please. E-A-R-L-Y. Love.” Never, ever should have sexed Emily. That was a mistake. He knew it. But then, if D could rewrite history, he’d start a lot further back.
Not only had he slept with her, but worse, he’d borrowed money too. Money was always trouble. Combine that with sex and you’ve let the Devil into your bedroom. D had spent a lot of time around people with so much money that nothing their greedy souls desired was out of reach. He’d seen people—close friends, intimate acquaintances, and customers—who lived as if money was endless as air and just as easily acquired. D himself had never once enjoyed that carefree exhilaration. All he knew was that mundane feeling when the already small denominations in his wallet shrank with every glance at the trendy eateries, couture clothes, and tech-toys-for-boys he desired.
His baby business was grossing dollars, but net was something else. Paying overtime. Giving advances to build loyalty. Just keeping the cash flow tight. Vendors were slow with checks. Payment often came in sixty-day cycles, while rent and telephone bills came every thirty days. All of it was draining D Security’s meager resources. Business had been good when they began four years ago, but the novelty of D Security had worn off. The business was based on intimate relationships with vampires—people who worked nights, thrived in darkness, and had breakfast after 1 p.m. Tough to count on people like that, D knew, ’cause he was one of them.
Around 2:30 someone called from Bad Boy to say the meeting would have to be rescheduled. No surprise there. D decided to head home and take a nap. He lived on Seventh Avenue and 17th Street, just above a bar called Merchants, where every couple of days he stopped in for a mojito, one of the few vices he allowed himself. Although it was only midafternoon, D’s place was as dark as 11 p.m. The walls, carpet, bed, shades, the clothes scattered about—all variations on black. Coal black. Charcoal black. Inky black. Blue black. Plain old ebony. For D, his apartment was sometimes a womb, sometimes a crypt, sometimes a dungeon—depending on his mood.
The Accidental Hunter Page 1